What price is there for living life the way you chose and how much did it cost to get to the bench you sit on now, watching flowers grow? How many upside down glass cups of hash smoke broke how many cherries bled in vans of orgies we chose to attend with peanut butter at the end? How many plastic baggies fill the land-fill that were once filled with Colombian Gold Spanish missionaries never found how much was every breath of nicotine and every thing we dropped in mystery not knowing what the end would be until it fooled us we were free. Yes we forgot who died who went into the wild as wild child sans the wisdom to know not to eat the root yet wrote the book after a life was gone and here we are we have to carry on and on and on and on until we reach whatever we head to. What is it that we seek we never ask until we’re weak and then it comes in shocked surprise and dangles just before our eyes… yes: a universal joke that started with a daring toke and ended when the hash-smoke broke and left us standing here alone I would have married you the day I ran my childish hands through still brown curls but our world says that such a union is doomed for Hell and so we knew it and we ever only blew in our minds because I’m certain I was not the only one who felt the way I did I knew too much though just a kid and I wished you would take me home with you but you belonged to the world for all you were a rebel man and now the world passed us in a thundering roar and it’s too late to know the score and there’s no chance for any more.
The short short days with halter tops were short short days until the youth stops and the pride of place is lost in the dub step shuffle of decades while you hold the memories of years like jewels falling out of trembling hands into the abyss of forever all the places that you dreamed of are still nothing more than foreign lands full of the same war we fought over and over before just with different names but it’s all the same King of the Games.
So here I am writing these words while my old cat drools over birds at his best place by the French doors that maybe once let in the oil-whores that I ran with for long enough to know what love is worth for a night after several drinks when no one’s thinking it will send and you won’t even know the name of who it was thirty years later you will only recall a ginger ass bouncing in the dark while the starry skies flew over head and wars came home with coffins full of the dead and blue skies fled across the hours and days and years and all the oceans of trite tears until it is that sunshine falls upon the public housing walls and the wheeled walker to the bus stop full of people that your grandfather would cry to see you hug….
…or maybe smile…
…because we are only here such a very short while.